Aftermath
by merick
Summary: After being abducted and used by Eurus in her game of vengeance, Mycroft seeks to put the world to rights and mitigate whatever damage he can. It leads him to restoring Sherlock's network of friends, and takes him down an unexpected path as Eurus' forced revelations take their toll on everyone.
1. Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights only served to add to the nearly overpowering sterility of the rectangular room. Their blue-ish light reflected off stainless steel tables and countertops, with any sound echoing off the floors, bouncing against bare walls and glass fronted cabinets. A normal person might have found the place disconcerting, even eerie. But of course, Mycroft Holmes wasn't a normal person; at least in his own estimation. Even the human body, clearly discernable despite the worn coroner's white sheet covering it, didn't disturb him. It was a significantly more benign sight that most of the bodies he normally saw.

Feelings, including revulsion, fear, gut-wrenching sickness were quite foreign; made so by conscious decision from childhood. A genius level IQ and the self-awareness of such at a young age had set him on a path he very rarely deviated from. Though this occasion was one of those rare instances. He'd questioned his motivations as well as his sanity in the car ride over, so much so that he'd had his driver wait outside, in case he came to his senses prior to opening that door.

He hadn't.

"Ms. Hooper?"

The woman at the far end of the room turned slowly, her white lab coat hardly disturbed by the movement. It was odd, he thought to himself, how different she was than his brother (from his earlier assessment of her nature), but yet, how very similar they could be in some mannerisms, now that Sherlock had mannerisms that was, or were they overt expressions of his feelings? (Something to ponder at a later time.) Four weeks past, that would have been an easy question to answer, Sherlock kept most everything as close to the vest as he did. But then Eurus had forced open that door Sherlock had heretofore kept locked; or was is more akin to blowing up a well crafted wall that Sherlock had constructed all those years ago, possibly the later.

Mycroft was afraid for his brother, yet another unfamiliar sensation, (or at least a distant one), also likely due to the actions of his sister. Sherlock was on the knife-edge of the precipice and it was a wonder he hadn't toppled over it: there was credit to give to John and Mrs. Hudson for that of course. But there was one piece of Sherlock's necessary support system that was missing and Mycroft, on behalf of his brother, felt compelled to restore it.

Or at least to try.

"Mr. Holmes."

No surprise, no disdain, no expression registered on her face at all. He might as well have been one of the corpses. In that she was Sherlock.

"I wonder if we might talk?" He asked.

She glanced at her watch, as if deciding if he was worth the time. He supposed he couldn't blame her for that. Though he did note it as odd that she hadn't immediately asked about Sherlock upon seeing him, and hadn't at least overtly made the assumption that something has happened to him. Perhaps she was as broken as he, and had swallowed her innate compassion and abandoned him altogether?

And perhaps that was for the best, and perhaps he shouldn't have decided to interfere? When she looked back up at him though, he could see a sheen in her eyes and he knew that he was in the correct place, doing the proper thing for them both. It was the answer he needed, and she hadn't had to say a word.

"I think you are owed an apology Ms. Hooper."

"For what?"

He took a deep breath before opening the box, her eyes following his chest movement.

"For the phone call."

"Ah," she replied quietly, bowing her head once again.

"I didn't know if Sherlock had offered one."

"We haven't spoken." Her dull voice would have been heartbreaking to anyone else hearing it, and Mycroft did admit to himself that even he felt a slight stirring in his own chest, accompanying a sense of cold, due in no part to their environs. He tried to continue.

"And seeing as I feel partly responsible for what happened."

"Partly?" There was some emotion behind that word, and the sharpening of her eyes towards him had been unexpected.

"I'm sorry?" His response didn't sound as confident as he was used to hearing from his own voice. Shock colored the confusion to make it quite unlike him.

"Is that it?" Her voice was gaining strength as her demeanor recaptured its resolve.

"Is that what?" Mycroft was altogether unused to hearing himself stutter.

"My apology."

God, she was as sharp as his brother.

"No." He tried to gather himself up.

There was a brief moment of silence between them.

"What were you thinking, letting her speak to James Moriarty?"

So, someone had revealed the details to her. Of course, of their triad there could have only been one.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, John told me what happened, how your sister was able to manipulate the people around her, yourself included, into arranging her revenge on you both."

"In my defense, if the rules I had laid out had been obeyed it would have never come to this."

"So that is my apology then is it Mr. Holmes?"

"No, of course not." Being flustered was quite uncomfortable. As was her stare. He took another deep breath.

"Ms. Hooper. I am sincerely sorry that you were drawn into this. I am sorry that your life was threatened, and that your privacy, both of home and of mind was invaded."

"Well that's a little better."

"May I assume that the cameras and transmitting equipment have been removed from your flat?"

"John collected my keys while I was at work and cleaned up thoroughly."

"Still, I would be pleased to have some of my men do another sweep for you should you have any lingering concerns."

She didn't answer him just then, only dropped her gaze again and knit her hands together behind her back; well it was either that, or she was reaching for some implement on the counter behind her with which to do him harm. He hoped for the former.

"How is she?" She asked quietly to the floor.

"My sister?"

"Yes."

"She's become quite withdrawn since Sherlock confronted her. She doesn't speak, and does little more than eat and sleep and walk about her cell. Have you ever seen a caged tiger Ms. Hooper? How they pace the perimeter of their enclosure, wearing the earth away into a rut, over and over again."

"Plotting silently the means of their escape and how best to kill their jailers?" Her cocked head and pursed smile demonstrated her concerns.

"Perhaps not the best analogy I could have chosen?"

"Perhaps not."

"But I assure you Ms. Hooper, my sister is no longer a threat to you or anyone else. Her skills are no longer being used by myself or by anyone else. The military are constantly monitoring any interactions she has with the staff and those are limited to meals and housekeeping."

He paused, thinking of Eurus, no human contact at all really. Lucite slots and trays for her needs, no electronics, piped in music; all of it so distant, except for her violin.

"The only signs of sentience we really have from her now are when Sherlock comes."

Her jaw quivered a little at the mention of his name.

"He plays the violin for her, and she accompanies him. Together, even without practice or sheet music, they are astounding to hear."

"I see."

"Ms. Hooper, is there anything else I can do to reassure you?"

"How is Sherlock?"

Now that question seemed a small breakthrough, evidence that she did still care for the man.

"He is Sherlock. Still broken, perhaps into smaller fragments now knowing what he does about our childhood."

Hearing his own words Mycroft understood how unsatisfying his answer had been, and he sought to immediately qualify it.

"He doesn't speak of it; at least not to me. He seeks out his 'fixes' as he normally does, in his work, or in pharmaceuticals, avoiding the distress of real life."

"Do you think he's in danger of harming himself again?"

"Ms. Hooper, it's very hard to say. I know Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson are keeping a close eye on him. But I also know that your assistance in such matters would be greatly appreciated. I'm certain he misses you."

"I can't."

It was obvious she was trying to rebuild her resolve but that common decency made it so very difficult.

"I was humiliated Mr. Holmes. How can I face him?"

The door behind Mycroft creaked as someone sought to open it; he whirled on the intruder.

"Out!" He barked. Someone in blue scrubs, a blur really, closed the door quickly, the vibration setting the vials on a nearby counter to ringing against each other.

"He asked me to tell him I loved him, not because he genuinely wanted to know, but for a case he said. Can you imagine the hurt I felt being asked to profess that, knowing it meant nothing to him but a means to an end? And then to discover that someone knew my secret and was mocking me, belittling me for their amusement, threatening my life because of you? Do you know what that does to someone?"

"I assure you Ms. Hooper, Sherlock was hurting as well, he would never have forced you into that situation if there had been any other way. He didn't want you to die."

"He couldn't have another death on his conscience, not so soon after Mary." It was easy to see that she was falling apart despite her best attempts to contain it, remembering all that hurt, having to live it again because of his presence. Yet another wall breached by the Holmes children.

"It was more than that Molly." She looked right at him, glistening eyes, quivering lip. It hadn't even dawned on him that he'd become so familiar as to use her first name.

"Sherlock doesn't love me, despite what I made him say. He never will."

"He will likely never love anyone, not the way you deserve to be loved. I think the loss of his best friend, even though the memories of it were muddled, have made that impossible."

"I had just hoped." She dabbed her sleeve against her eyes.

"I'm sorry that he doesn't recognize your value Molly. If there was anyone deserving."

"It wouldn't be me."

"It should be. Perhaps he just needs time to overcome his own shame at what he did to you?"

Her smile was soft, but unconvincing of anything except her own hurt. He tried to match it with one of his own, but wasn't quite convinced he'd accomplished it.

"Perhaps I should go then Molly?"

"If you wouldn't mind Mr. Holmes, perhaps you could have someone come round and make sure everything is safe at my flat?"

"Of course, I'll send someone this evening."

"Do you think that perhaps you could send me his photo or something, just so I know?"

"How very stupid of me Ms. Hooper. I'll accompany him myself."

"Oh, you don't have to go to all that trouble."

"It's the least I can do."

"I assume I don't need to give you the address?"

Mycroft's grin betrayed the most sincere calm; he was finally back in his element, in control.

"No. Shall we say about seven?"

"Yes, that would be fine."

"Till then." He gave a nod and turned to exit.

"I'm very sorry for what happened to your sister Mr. Holmes."

His hand involuntarily tightened around the top of his umbrella, but he didn't lose a beat in his answer.

"Thank you." He offered, not daring to turn back.

The landlord had a buzzer system on the front step, an ancient thing with rust around the edges and black buttons worn smooth from use. Names printed on little scraps of paper stuck sadly askew over the buttons, where they were present at all. A good shoulder probably would have knocked the front door in anyways. He made a mental note to have that checked.

Mycroft pushed at the correct black spot, its tinny noise struggling through the dusty speaker. Muffled though it was, at least it seemed to function. Molly's voice answered and he identified himself and his companions and was allowed entry with a similarly tinny buzz and click.

She met them at her door. It was easy to see that a new bolt had been added to it recently as the paint around the doorframe was chipped away and the brass hardware was significantly shinier than the latch and knob.

"Mr. Homes, thank you for coming." Molly stepped aside to invite he and the three gentlemen accompanying him into her flat.

"Allow me to introduce James, Raj and Colin. They'll be checking for any devices that Dr. Watson and Sherlock might have overlooked. They'll also be installing some cameras that only you can control, so they'll need to run some wires. They'll make certain not to do any damage. We'll leave you a monitor for the system." It was all quite matter of fact as he explained it.

"Of course, thank you, all of you. Do you gentlemen need anything?"

"Just some space to set up our equipment if you don't mind Miss?" That was James, Mycroft's right hand.

"Yes, of course, perhaps the kitchen?"

Molly's anxiety was easily visible to Mycroft. Her eyes darted about; over the technicians, their cases, and her flat walls. Her complexion seemed a little pale and the shadows under her eyes (not quite so visible in the fluorescent lights of the morgue earlier) seemed deep, betraying a chronic lack of sleep.

"What should I do then?" She asked. "Just keep out of your way?"

"Why don't you come and have a seat in the living room Ms. Hooper." Mycroft motioned towards her couch. "We'll let the gentlemen get to work and I'll explain to you what they are doing and how to work these cameras."

He hoped that detailing the process to her might put her a little more at ease and stop her wringing her hands in her lap. She seemed like the type of person who preferred the comfort of knowing what was going on around her, as opposed to blissful ignorance.

"Should I put the kettle on?" She asked.

Mycroft simply smiled at her concern, and finally she smiled as well.

"That sounded a great deal like Mrs. Hudson didn't it?" She allowed herself a quiet little laugh. It seemed to defuse the tension a little in her shoulders.

"I wouldn't know, she doesn't offer me tea. I don't think she likes me very much." Self-deprecation, he found, was often a good way to disarm people.

"Well I suppose she just doesn't know you well enough Mr. Holmes."

"Yes," he grinned, "that must be it."

They both laughed a little at that.

"You know, the occasion probably calls for something a little stronger than tea anyways. I have a nice single malt; at least I'm told it's a nice single malt. Would you join me Mr. Holmes?"

"Thank you, yes, that would be nice."

"Well good then." Molly retrieved the bottle from a concealed cupboard that obviously functioned as her liquor cabinet, and set it down in front of Mycroft as sought out two crystal tumblers from the same recesses.

He couldn't help but admire the bottle, he hadn't expected much more than a Glenfiddich or the like, possibly from the duty-free, but he was pleasantly surprised by the pedigree of the Lagavulin she presented.

"It was a gift." She offered by means of an explanation to him as he examined the bottle, as if it was obvious that she wouldn't have the spare money to invest in such an expensive scotch. She set the glasses down carefully, they made a far wore delightful peal than the vials in her lab had earlier.

"Well someone obviously thinks highly of you."

"It was from John, a particularly rough night of colic with Rosie while he and Sherlock had to go off and surveil someone."

Mycroft could not help but notice how her voice trailed off after the mention of his brother. It seemed an opportune time to change the subject. He twisted the top off the bottle and poured two generous portions into the glasses.

"You are a very kind person Molly."

"I can't really help it, I feel so badly for John, with everything he's had to go through, deceptions, betrayals, losing Mary, and now with a little one at home all by himself."

It seemed to Mycroft that she wanted to keep talking and so he let her speak, sipping at the amber liquid (which really was quite sublime) as she did.

"Sherlock faking his death, me having to go along with it, even though I could see John's pain, Mary, her awful death. I didn't know if he'd ever forgive Sherlock for that."

Of course Mycroft had been there when Mrs. Norbury, so incensed by Sherlock's goading, had pulled the trigger, intent on killing him, but taking Mary instead.

"But Dr. Watson is recovering?"

"John is guarded, but I know, despite everything, he missed Sherlock terribly. He had to get back out there, investigating, he needed that purpose for his soul again."

"And what does your soul need?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What do you need to begin feeling whole again Molly?"

It was a leap, perhaps far too familiar, but it seemed the right path to take.

"Maybe a good night's sleep?"

"Well hopefully the cameras and the security systems here will help with that."

"I'm sure they will. I imagine the scotch will as well."

"Is there anything else? Are you eating well? Working too much? Do you feel it would be helpful to get away for awhile, or talk with someone about how you are feeling?"

"I think I'll just stay away from counselors for the time being."

Eurus again.

"This really has been very difficult for you, hasn't it?"

She nodded, taking a healthy sip of the scotch.

"How have you been managing?"

"I keep busy, I spend more time at work, and less time here. I try not to think about things; which is hard when John calls about sitting for Rosie."

"You are very strong."

"I have to be, don't I? People count on me."

"And you only have yourself to count on."

"It isn't that dire Mr. Holmes."

"Are you certain?"

"I just need time I think, it's not the first time I've been scared, or been deceived, or even had my heart broken."

"Let me give you my private number then," he reached into the breast pocket of his suit, pulling out an official looking (if not wholly accurate in its details) business card. "I'll write it on the back, I'd appreciate it if you didn't share it with anyone."

"Of course, thank you. That's very kind."

"I can have someone here in minutes, at any time of the day or night. And I'll speak to the landlord about fixing the front entrance properly in the coming days."

"Excuse me Sir, we're just finishing up here if you'd like me to demonstrate everything for Miss Hooper."

It was a well-timed interruption Mycroft thought, for them both, as their conversation seemed to have reached an appropriate ending. He was not used to acting as a sounding board for anyone; not that people didn't try to offer drawn out, emotional explanations to him on many subjects. He was far more used to sorting through all of that to get to the heart of the matter at hand, but of course, this was not one of those situations. It had turned into something quite unusual indeed.

He watched her, while finishing his drink, as James pointed out everything on the little touch screen that would allow her to review any type of activity in her home. To give Sherlock credit, his gentleman had found no other surveillance devices, but had reinforced all the access points, no matter how small they were. He hoped that it would restore some of her peace of mind, it was, after all, the least he could do to try to rectify the harm he and his siblings had brought to her.

When all of that had been finished, and Raj and Colin had packed up their gear and tidied up he too stood, and made to leave after offering her a farewell. He was nearly out the door, following the others when a thought came to him and he turned back to her.

"Ms. Hooper? Do you have a fancy dress?"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"I only ask because I was wondering if you might like to accompany me to an event this coming Friday evening. It's a ballet performance, a work thing, black tie. I can't promise it will be terribly exciting, but it would be very nice to have company, if you'd like."

"It sounds lovely, I'd love to go."

"Wonderful, I'll come around to collect you about 7 if that isn't too early."

"Thank you, I'm looking forward to it."

"Till then Ms. Hooper."

Sitting in the back of his car, Mycroft continued to wonder if he had completely lost his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Functions like this one were blessedly few and far between, especially as Mycroft did very little field work typically. There were meetings of course, and briefings and meals at the club but when so many ambassadors and spies were attending one public function, it was good to have a presence. Of course he owned a tuxedo, several in fact. He'd had one pressed, his shoes had been polished (he'd done that himself), and all that remained, once he'd dressed, was to collect the tickets from his office desk (his home office that was) and to collect Molly from her flat. He'd heard nothing from her over the week, which he took as a good sign. Hopefully it meant that she had settled into her newly secured home, and that she hadn't changed her mind about accepting his invitation, or just forgotten completely.

It seemed she hadn't, opening the door at his very first knock as if she'd been standing there waiting for him. (Of course that front door hadn't been fixed, and he had James make a call then and there about it.)

Molly looked lovely, a long red dress, silver shoes just peeping out from underneath the hem and a sparkling clutch to match. Yes it was new, as he'd expected it to be, but it was actually a little flattering that she'd thought enough of him, or the invitation at the least, to acquire it, no small expense considering her circumstances. And she'd worn her hair down; he'd only ever seen her in a ponytail, a utilitarian style for her work, it was lovely change and framed her bright face in soft curls. He was pleased to take her on his arm and guide her into the foyer of the theatre where the cocktail reception was being staged. He'd asked her in the car if she would please call him Mycroft, as Mr. Holmes, had it been heard by any of the others present would have been awkward. She'd smiled shyly, but accepted.

As it was, one of his colleagues had questioned him about her presence all the same.

"Well Mycroft, I hadn't expected to see you here."

Of course she had known he was attending, it was a poor method and excuse to discover minutiae about his private life; and perhaps it was a little bit of jealousy on her part, looking at Molly, a great many years her junior.

"Lady Smallwood, may I introduce my friend Molly Hooper."

"Ma'am." Molly curtsied.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance Miss Hooper." Mycroft was quite certain that pronouncement wasn't wholly sincere. "I wonder, might I be able to borrow Mycroft from you for a few minutes?"

"Oh, of course, I'll go fetch us some drinks." Molly was quite gracious, and genuine, a refreshing change in companions.

Lady Smallwood waited until Molly was out of earshot before beginning her questioning. Though, she kept her eyes on the young lady as she spoke.

"So Mycroft, where did you find her?"

"As I said Elizabeth, she's a friend."

"Well, she's certainly not a professional, too innocent looking for that."

"Are you saying that I would hire someone to accompany me to this event? That would be incredibly stupid of me."

"Well I can't see where you would have come across someone like that. Was she selling tickets for the underground, or working for your tailor?"

"I'll have you know that she is a doctor."

"Are you sick?"

"Sometimes I do wonder."

"You know that the Russians are here."

"Exactly why I would only bring someone that I know and trust."

"Funny you've never spoken of her before."

"There are a great many things I don't speak of, I imagine you are the same."

"Indeed. Well, just keep an eye on your Miss Hooper so no one else gets to her." And with that warning Lady Smallwood returned to her business, well, their business, sipping her wine and smiling at people she couldn't stand. Mycroft teetered between the two aspects of that job, substantially more sincerely than Lady Smallwood managed he believed. People had grown to expect an air of disdain around him; and he did little to dispel their assumptions. It was good to be feared, and not to be the one in fear. That thought gave him pause as he looked over at Molly. Fear. It was a far too recent feeling for his comfort; a selfish feeling.

If Molly could cope with Sherlock, Mycroft wasn't concerned in the least about her abilities to avoid the Russians; it wasn't as if they were seeking to recruit double agents out in the open. He wandered over to her at the bar where she was sipping champagne and being chatted up by one of the aforementioned Russians who excused himself quickly as Mycroft approached.

"I'm so sorry for that interruption Molly."

"Oh, I understand, this is a work thing for you after all." She was so entirely reasonable.

"And speaking of that, there was a gentleman here?"

"Oh yes, I think he was Slavic, Russian I presume? He was just asking who I'd come here with and if I was excited for the performance."

"And?"

"And I assumed that British intelligence and Russians in the same room weren't likely a coincidence, so I told him I'd won tickets on the radio, and that I was so very excited to be here with all these important people. Then I asked him if he was important and if I could take a selfie with him? He seemed uncomfortable after that."

"Good girl."

"Are they all spies?"

"Most of them, yes."

"But it isn't dangerous being here, is it?"

"Not at all. We're just making certain that they are aware of our presence, sort of a preemptive strike. They've had their hands in enough political situations of late."

"Like the US and France?" He was impressed with her knowledge of the undertone of current events.

"Oh yes, meddling in internal politics, supporting people who will turn tides in their favor. Or to wrap people up in domestic politics to such a degree that they'll ignore global situations, thus allowing them to move towards their end game."

"And that is?"

"Reassembling the Soviet union, turning Putin into another tyrant, with no one to oppose him as he runs across Europe and beyond."

"Well that's a little frightening."

"Indeed. And so we let him know, through his agents, that we are watching. Would you like another drink?"

"Yes, yes I think I would."

They'd made small talk, steering away from politics for a little while, and watched the ballet itself in comparative silence. Not given to emotions himself normally, he was a little surprised to look over at her in the darkened box and see her eyes misting over, and her trying silently to dab up the tears without anyone noticing. Being just as quiet himself he pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it into her hand gently. Not looking directly at her face, he spared her the discomfort of having someone see her reddened eyes, and whatever embarrassment might come with that. Yes the tale was sad, but Mycroft hadn't taken the time to consider that in planning his evening. In truth his mind was busy thinking about what he would have to deal with the following day, and what the night's surveillance would reveal that he would have to dissect over the coming days. But a little part of him wondered if he had, perhaps, missed something in not considering the ballet itself with a little more attention.

James was out front with the car. Now there was a man who took his job seriously: focused, polite and lethal, a perfect combination. It did make Mycroft wonder if he shouldn't spend a bit more time in the gym, especially comparing his rather soft hands (though good on a weapon's grip) to James' corded ones, as he opened the door for Molly.

She hadn't said a great deal since the performance had ended. There had been polite nods and smiles to those in the box who had bid them goodnight, and a palpable relief when he had reached for her hand to guide her through the crowds. Perhaps he had misjudged her level of comfort among those people, his people.

Or perhaps not.

"That was exciting." She whispered once the door was closed. Mycroft felt the smile curling up the corner of his lips.

"You enjoyed yourself then?"

"I did. If was awfully interesting watching everyone at the reception, wondering who was who, trying to pick up clues about them from they way they acted. I know I'm not like Sherlock, I can't write someone's biography after a five minute meeting, but just knowing who some of them were, well, it was good to take my mind off of other things for awhile. And the ballet was so beautiful. I didn't think that story would catch me up so completely, it seems as if it's been so long since I could let go. I hope I didn't smudge my makeup too much did I? I should have checked before the lights came up."

He looked right at her, and even in the dim light of the car's interior he could see that all was perfect. And it was good to hear a modicum of excitement in her voice again, instead of the guarded tones of earlier interactions.

"Not at all." He assured her.

"Thank you for the loan of your handkerchief, I promise I'll launder it and have it back to as quick as I can."

"Not to worry, I have a drawer-full."

"I hope that you had a good time this evening? I suppose for me it was a distraction but for you it's probably just business as usual."

"I'm glad that you did find it some kind of a diversion. I will admit, it was a much more enjoyable occasion having you there with me."

Her smile was so honest; it made Mycroft feel quite pleased with himself. Assuaging some of the guilt he continued to harbor did make his chest feel a little lighter. He had to admit (to himself only of course) that the human companionship she'd provided had been more than refreshing, it had been comforting.

Pulling up to the sidewalk by her flat so quickly was almost disappointing. But he walked her up the steps (the outside door was still not repaired, though it had only been a few hours) and to her door. She turned the key in the lock and pushed it open, exposing the darkened room and stopped.

She turned to him and in a very quiet voice said,

"Thank you for tonight Mycroft."

Then she stood up on her tiptoes and gently kissed him.

"Well," he stuttered, "that was unexpected."

"It certainly was."

Both of them spun, looking into the darkness and uttered the same name, with the same intonation of surprise.

"Sherlock?"


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

She was pacing rather effectively Mycroft thought, for someone who was obviously not used to high-heeled shoes. Her face was a mixture of anger and sadness and she didn't seem to know what to do with her hands as they went from clutched to shaking, to covering her eyes, or how to cope with the rage that was obvious underneath her tight shoulders. Sherlock stared at her, and Mycroft shifted his gaze between them both, wondering whose life he was going to have to save. Would it be a murder or a medical emergency?

"How dare you?" She whispered. "How dare you break into my home?"

"I was concerned about you." Sherlock replied, with more emotion in his voice than Mycroft was used to hearing. He filed the information for later assessment.

"You were concerned about me?" She asked, ignoring Mycroft completely.

"Yes Molly."

"So breaking into my flat was your way of checking on me? You've never heard of a telephone?"

"I wasn't certain you'd pick up."

"Five weeks ago, five weeks ago." She spoke the words slowly, her chest rising and falling in an attempt to keep herself stable. "Five weeks and this is the first time you found yourself concerned enough about me to reach out? Even your brother stopped in to check on me Sherlock, I thought we were friends, I thought that maybe I meant more to you."

Mycroft remained silent.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice sounded desperate.

She cut him off before he could continue, it seemed that his presence had unleashed the pain she had been holding back. Tears clouded her eyes again, and she used that same handkerchief to angrily wipe them dry.

"You broke into my home."

"When I saw the dress bag on your bed and the new shoe box."

"Oh my God, you were in my bedroom?"

"As soon as I determined that you'd likely gone out for the evening I decided to sit down and wait for you to come home. You can check your new security cameras, I've been sitting here ever since."

"This is my privacy Sherlock!" There was little chance of stopping the tears now. Fortunately Sherlock had the sense to remain silent at that point, though Mycroft could see his hands trembling as he did.

Molly's whole body shook with a tragic sob, Mycroft even found himself ready to rush to her, though he stayed still, like Sherlock, knowing that she needed this release, and needed it on her terms.

"I know why you did what you did Sherlock. I know why you made me say what you did. I know you never would have done it if there had been any other way, and I am so sorry for what you have been through. I'm not angry at you for that. But you stopped talking to me Sherlock. And maybe it's selfish of me, but I thought maybe you might want to talk to me about it, about how you were feeling, or even say you were sorry."

"Molly, I." He looked at her with wide eyes, at a loss for words, so very unlike him, the old him.

"I'm not ready for this Sherlock. I'm sorry, I just can't. Not like this, not right now. I think I need you to leave. Please."

Mycroft watched as his brother stood, the broken form of Sherlock, the one that trembled, and lost words and demonstrated grief on his face.

"I am so sorry Molly." He whispered.

She sobbed again, clutching the handkerchief to her eyes.

"Sherlock, why don't you go wait in the car? I'll take you home."

"I can walk Mycroft."

"I'd prefer you didn't. Please. Just go wait in the car, I'll be there directly." He tried to smile knowing that it was an awkward attempt at best.

Sherlock nodded and left, his footsteps on the stairs were barely audible as he descended.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Mycroft. I didn't want tonight to end this way. I don't want to be a terrible person. I don't want to hurt him anymore than he already has been. I just."

"You don't have to apologize Molly. He shouldn't have done what he did tonight. He should have reached out to you much earlier, I wasn't certain if he would be able to, or how it might do it. I could post a guard outside your door if you like, to shoot him if he comes back?"

It was an attempt at humor, and thankfully she laughed a little through the handkerchief.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"If you change your mind the offer stands."

She took a few deep breaths, calming her own shaking.

"Please make sure he is safe Mycroft. Please make sure he doesn't hurt himself. I don't know what I'd do if I drove him to that."

"I promise Molly."

"You are a good man Mycroft."

He smiled at her. Thinking of a dozen things he wanted to say, none of them quite right for the situation.

"I'll just go then, and make certain he gets home alright."

The night seemed a great deal colder than it had earlier. Mycroft wondered what it was that had precipitated that. Was it seeing Sherlock unexpectedly, was it Sherlock's condition, was it Molly's condition, was it some sort of annoyance that his evening with her had been interrupted? It wasn't as if he had planned anything beyond the ballet, not consciously at least. It was all very perplexing.

"So?" Sherlock began as Mycroft slid into the car, "Are you sleeping with her?"

"I beg your pardon."

Sherlock answered without registering Mycroft's surprise.

"No, I don't think you are, you looked quite shocked when she kissed you, first date then?"

"Stop it Sherlock."

"She obviously thinks a lot of you, that was quite an expensive dress."

"I can still put you on a plane to the middle east you know."

"Fine."

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, until Mycroft felt he had to say something,

"We went to the ballet. A work thing."

"A work thing?" Sherlock laughed. Mycroft regretted his use of the colloquial.

"You know what I mean."

"Don't put her in any danger Mycroft. The Holmes children have done enough of that already."

"I have no intention of doing so."

"You should send her some flowers tomorrow."

"Some what?"

"Not roses, too ordinary, and not lilies, what with the whole death connotation and all; just some cut flowers of some sort or get her something exotic, like a Bird of Paradise. She'd like that."

"Sherlock?"

"She deserves better than us Mycroft. You know that, so just please, make certain you don't hurt her."

"You presume quite a bit brother mine."

"Do I? Your pupils are dilated."

The car pulled to a slow stop in front of 221b Baker Street and Sherlock climbed out, walking around behind the car and to his doorway. He looked back at Mycroft who had lowered the car window.

"You don't have to watch me go in Mycroft."

"Yes I do. And don't go and do anything stupid after I've left. I've promised Molly."

Sherlock stopped, his head hanging a little lower.

"I can't hurt her again either."

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight Sherlock."

"No, I promise I won't take anything stronger than tea tonight. You should go home, and order those flowers for Molly. Put something sweet on the card as well won't you." And he was gone.

Mycroft waited until the lights came on behind the curtains of the second floor flat; knowing full well that Sherlock, if he wanted to, could just as easily wait for him to pull away and then leave once again. But he had a feeling (he preferred to call it intuition), that his brother would keep his word that night. Just in case, he sent a quick message to Doctor Watson, no need to be cryptic, John would know to check in.

"James, we'll need to organize some flowers for Miss Hooper in the morning, if you don't mind."

Mycroft wasn't certain if Molly had been in any mood to accept, or even check messages on her phone after the unexpected visit and the tension of the previous night, but he had sent one anyways.

'Everyone has been delivered home safely. I hope you have a peaceful remainder to your night.'

He hadn't expected a response, and hadn't received one. But on first rising he ensured that James would be out to find flowers for Molly, and he wrote a personal card to her to be included with the bouquet. Satisfied with that, he had an espresso and a croissant, showered, dressed and went down to his office to review the sheets from the past evening. He checked his phone once more before sliding it to the edge of the desk in favor of the papers in their plain envelopes that James had delivered first thing in the morning. He would send responses via the encrypted email he had arranged at his home, but he did like seeing the handwritten notes from their operatives. It took a second cup of espresso and two full hours to digest them properly; and only then did his phone chime gently.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

The dress had been hung back on its hanger on her closet door, the shoes tucked back into their box, and the clutch back into its velvet bag. She'd showered to wash off the makeup and the tears, though it had not helped the feeling that she'd made a terrible mistake in confronting Sherlock the way she had. She'd held her phone in her hand, waking it up every time the screen faded to black, for over an hour, debating whether or not she should message him just to say something to soften the words she'd hurled at him earlier. She'd eventually fallen asleep with the phone beside her on the bed and the battery had run down sometime after midnight, the last little digital display she remembered.

She plugged it in in the kitchen as she made herself some tea and changed into some jeans and a loose shirt with poet sleeves that felt comfortable and soft for a Saturday. She felt absolutely weary, that was the best word for it; as if she hadn't slept at all, as if her mind had been awake all night, tormenting her with dreams that she couldn't remember, only the feeling of sickness they had left behind. There was nothing that could be done until her battery had some charge in it and so she sipped cautiously at her tea, and listening to her own heart beat hammering in her ears. She wasn't going to cry again, she'd promised that to herself, but it was going to be a hard promise to keep, especially in the silence. At least the tea was calming her stomach enough to move about the flat, eyes darting around to see if anything was out of place. She hated that she was thinking of Sherlock going through her things, exposing more secrets to come between them, especially since he'd assured her he hadn't done it. She hadn't had the heart, or the nerve to check the cameras. Part of her just couldn't handle knowing the truth if it was anything different than his promise.

And then there was Mycroft.

What had she been thinking?

He'd come to her with guilt, seeking some sort of absolution of course, what other reason could there be? And she, she had parlayed her own grief into something else. Was there no end to her humiliation when it came to the Holmes brothers?

The buzz from the outside door startled her. The sick feeling returned, wondering who was outside, because of course, with a discharged battery, no one could have called to check on her and give her any warning.

"Hello?" She spoke cautiously into the mic.

"Good morning Miss Hooper, it's James, could I come up please?"

Being wholly unexpected, Molly answered without actually thinking about it.

"Of course." And buzzed him in.

A moment later he was at her door. She checked for tearstains in the mirror before opening it to him and what turned out to be a paper wrapped cone of flowers (she assumed), mostly hiding his face.

"Mr. Holmes asked me to bring these 'round for you." He held them out.

"For me?"

"Yes Miss. And if I might ask a favor?"

"Whatever I can do."

"If I could just borrow your front door key I've got the new piece downstairs, and if I can just key the new lock to your key it'll save me having to make new keys for everyone."

"That was a lot of keys in one sentence."

"Yes it certainly was Miss."

"Let me just get that for you then."

"Thank you Miss." He handed her the flowers and took the key in exchange. "I'll bring it back shortly."

"I'll just put these in some water then."

"A good idea Miss."

She unwrapped the cone carefully, smoothing the paper out on the counter, and setting the card aside for the moment while she ran some water in the sink and trimmed the cut ends of the blooms. They were beautiful. Soft purples and pinks, wrapped around a majestic orange bird of paradise stem that stood tall in the vase. She admired them for a few minutes, picking up her teacup again before she remembered the card.

"Thank you for last night, it was lovely getting to know you and spending time with you."

Mycroft

"Oh my." She whispered to herself.

Mycroft Holmes had felt less anxiety putting his signature to orders sending men into war zones than he had experienced writing a simple card to accompany flowers. Everything that seemed to come to mind had sounded so trite, as it had come from a terrible romantic comedy or a cheap greeting card. He wasn't even particularly pleased with what he had finally settled on, but at least he didn't sound like a teenager or a country music singer.

Then there was the waiting, knowing that James must have arrived, that he must have delivered them. Though she could have been at work, or still sleeping, or just so horrified at the gesture that she wasn't able to bring herself to acknowledge it.

Then his phone rang, and his gut rolled over once.

"Hello?"

"Mycroft? It's Molly."

"Well hello."

"I wanted to call and say thank you for the flowers. They are beautiful, that was so thoughtful of you."

"Yes, well." He wasn't quite prepared to admit that the idea had been Sherlock's. "I'm glad you like them."

There was a moment of silence between them.

"I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

"Well, until." He regretted the words as soon as he had said them.

"Have you heard from Sherlock today?" She asked cautiously.

"I hadn't expected to. Have you?"

"No."

"I'm certain he's fine, likely awake testing some odd blood spatter theory or sussing out conspiratorial code from the classifieds."

She laughed.

"You're probably right."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like old movies?"

"Yes. Mostly. Not those terrible science fiction ones though."

"I have a little screening room here at the house, and a good collection, do you think that perhaps next Saturday you might want to come around and watch one with me?"

"I'd like that very much. Would we be having buttered popcorn and chocolate candies and soda?"

"If that's what you'd like."

"It sounds fun."

"I'll send a car around for you then?"

"I can take a cab, it's not a problem."

"I'd feel better if you let me send a car."

"Of course, I understand, that would be nice. I suppose I'll see you then?"

"I look forward to it."

He thumbed off the phone and laid it flat on his desk, keeping his hand resting over it. He felt a little smile creep over his face. At the absolute normalcy of the conversation, (it's been quite awhile since he'd had a truly benign one), and the fact that his chest felt just a little bit warm all of a sudden.

"What exactly have I just done?" He whispered to himself, shaking his head.

John Watson looked surprisingly organized for a man toting a baby in a carrier, a portable cot, and a diaper bag all at once. Well, if you didn't look at his face that was.

"Thank you so much Molly, I really appreciate you looking after Rosie on such short notice." He was already in her living room; Rosie plopped down on the floor, looking for a place to set up her cot before Molly could answer. She pushed an end table against the window, making a free rectangle just before the narrow hallway to her bedroom and the bathroom.

"It's no trouble, you know I love having time with Rosie."

"But this really is a big ask, Sherlock just called." He stopped himself and finally looked up at Molly, gauging her response to the name, as he clicked the last bar of the cot rail into place. Molly smiled.

"I'm glad you two are getting out on a case. He needs that. I think you do too."

"Well I really do appreciate it Molly. I've got food and bottles in the bag, and I don't think we'll be very late so we'll be out of your hair before bedtime."

"Just be careful, and watch out for him, okay John?"

"Always."

"Then off you go. I can get her sorted." She made a little shooing motion as she reached for Rosie, settling the baby against her hip.

"You really are amazing Molly."

"Say bye-bye to Daddy Rosie." Rosie goo'ed obediently and John waved and disappeared.

"Well come on now little one, what shall we do? How about I get you a bottle and we read a book?"

Rosie had gone down about eight, a little later than normal, but Molly blamed the strawberries she'd given her, perhaps they'd been a little too sweet, and perhaps Molly had just wanted to prolong their visit just a bit. It was nice talking to someone whose greatest cares were dry pants, soft blankets and cuddles. They'd even had a little dance around the kitchen before the fluttering eyes and rosebud mouth had signaled it was time to sleep. Putting her down in the cot, Molly very quietly tidied away the toys and extra blankets, and got herself a book and settled into a corner of the couch to watch over Rosie until John returned.

It seemed she was nearly as tired as Rosie, drifting off herself, woken only by the buzz of her phone, John messaging to say he was just outside. It was one am.

"I'm so sorry I'm so late." He whispered as she opened the door to him.

"It's alright, she was just a gem. We had a lovely time."

"I'll just pack her up and we'll leave you be."

"Don't be silly. She's sleeping so well; don't disturb her. I'll get you some blankets and pillows, you must be exhausted as well."

"Are you sure?"

"Just stay John, I can attest that the couch is very comfortable."

John seemed almost relieved as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over one of the stools at her kitchen counter. Molly popped back to her linen closet and retrieved a blanket and sheets, spreading them over the couch as John peeked at Rosie, who was quite settled just where she was.

"Thank you Molly." He whispered as he took the offered pile.

"I'll see you in the morning then."

Crawling into her own bed Molly felt it a little easier to sleep than in past days, perhaps it was the company? Perhaps it was just pure exhaustion.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

She wasn't used to the sounds of bustling in her kitchen, unless of course, it was her making them. As quiet as John tried to be, cabinets squeaked, and the faucet gurgled, and, of course, Rosie cooed at her daddy as she stuffed her face with cereal 'o's'. It made Molly smile as she opened her eyes. It sounded like a home for once, and that made her feel a little wistful as she swung her legs out of bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

She'd always thought, or at least, she had always thought before she met Sherlock that she'd have been married by now, probably raising a little one of her own. Not that it had been a life goal, like her degrees had been. It was more of a puzzle piece of that complete person she pictured herself becoming when she'd been an undergrad, planning such things. When she had planned such things. Sherlock's appearance had thrown a bit of a spanner into those works. But at least as a man, he'd never made her doubt her skills or questioned them, even though he'd crushed a great deal else. He still relied on her, or he had up until that tipping point. She wasn't quite certain if what they had would ever recover Eurus' interventions.

Molly shook her head to clear those thoughts. It was done. It had to be done. It was time to put all that behind her, behind them and move forward. And she needed to face John, and Rosie, and have some tea to clear the fog.

"I'm so sorry, we didn't mean to wake you." John said as she wandered into the kitchen/living room. He was pouring hot water into her teapot. It was good, she thought, that he was making himself at home; it kept that half-sleep illusion up for a few more minutes.

"It's alright." She wandered past Rosie in her cot and ruffled her wispy hair gently. "I wanted to get up early and get some chores done." She maneuvered around John and pulled two mugs from the cupboard and the sugar bowl.

"Milk's in the fridge." She told him. He obediently retrieved it, and set it down on the breakfast bar beside the mugs: and the vase.

"Beautiful flowers." John noted as he poured.

"Thank you."

"May I ask who they are from?"

"I imagine you already have an idea."

He did look a little guilty.

"Sorry."

"I'm getting used to it." She sighed.

"Mycroft Holmes is,"

"Please don't John. Please. You might think he's dishonest, or dangerous, but he's only ever been kind to me."

"You've been seeing each other then?"

"Sort of. He took me out once, and he's invited me to watch a movie this weekend." She smiled with a little shrug, as if she needed to act contrite for that somehow.

"How did you meet, formally that is? If you don't mind me asking?"

"He came to my work to apologize to me."

"He did?" John's eyebrows perked up a little.

"I hadn't expected it either. I had thought oyu might bring Sherlock along to do that at some point, or trick me into coming to Baker Street." Molly stirred some sugar into her cup, the peal of the silverware on china making Rosie coo. "But he was quite sincere. And then he asked me would I like to go to the ballet?"

"And sent flowers."

"Yes, that was unexpected too."

"And what about Sherlock? He knows."

"I'm sure he mentioned it to you."

"He did."

"Quite matter-of-factly I imagine."

"Yes, that's Sherlock. But I know he was concerned."

"What exactly do you two think Mycroft is going to do to me?"

John's sigh was almost terrible enough that Molly wished she hadn't asked. His eyes were so serious as he looked at her.

"I don't want another Holmes' brother to break your heart Molly."

The admission brought unwanted tears to her eyes, and she had to turn away, clutching her cup, trying to focus on little Rosie, throwing cereal everywhere, to keep those tears from falling.

"I just want to be happy John. I don't see that's such a big ask." She whispered back quietly.

"It isn't."

They stayed silent for a few minutes, sipping their tea, watching Rosie. Children were good for those awkward moments.

"If he does anything to hurt you."

She nodded. It was heartbreaking that all anyone (that being John and Sherlock) ever thought about the substance of her relationships was that she was going to get hurt.

Molly had wanted to be excited about the movie (the second date she figured) with Mycroft, but the thoughts of John's words, and Sherlock's face as he had left her flat after seeing their kiss kept creeping in to spoil it. She still hadn't spoken with Sherlock, and the guilt over that also made her stomach feel sour, but she just didn't know what to say to him and he certainly wasn't the type of person you sent emojis too. (And really, she wasn't the type of person to send them either.) She wanted to think of herself as a person who dealt with these types of awkward situations directly; but she knew she wasn't. Not when it came to him at least. But she had to do something or she'd worry herself into an ulcer for sure. She pulled the phone out of her lab coat pocket and woke it up.

"How are you?" She texted. Then she put it down and picked up the next chart on her desk, trying to ignore it: the phone, not the chart that was. It buzzed after about two minutes.

"Busy. I need a foot, do you have any feet today?"

Part of her just wanted to laugh out loud. Sherlock was still Sherlock it seemed. With a relieved sigh she responded.

"By themselves?"

"They'd be much easier to carry that way thanks."

"I'll see what I can do."

Perhaps they were both avoiding the elephant in the room, but perhaps that was just the nature of their relationship, avoidance? And perhaps that was the way it needed to work, for them both to keep hold of their sanity. At that moment she was content enough to convince herself of that, and so she went to check the admissions logs for feet.

Mycroft had sent a short text (sans emojis) that James would be on his way to pick her up for seven. She'd spent nearly an hour trying to put a bit of a wave in her hair (damned hairdressers that made it look so easy). She'd chosen some jeans and a neutral top to wear. Perhaps it was a little risqué, certainly different than her normal work wear, a bit of a plunging neckline and a pretty bra. It all just made her feel happy, and she wanted to go into the evening happy. She deserved happy, just as she had told John. And once satisfied with how her hair looked she touched up her makeup and waited for James to buzz from the front stoop.

Of course he was on time. That didn't help the butterflies at all.

Mycroft had pondered microwave popcorn for about half a minute before he had decided that it was wholly inappropriate for a proper movie night, and then he had arranged for a small movie-style machine to be brought in so he could make it fresh, and with real butter. Not knowing what chocolate candies Molly would like he had also ordered a dozen varieties along with colas. It seemed as authentic as he would be able to manage; and truth was, he was quite pleased with himself. His cheeks were actually getting a little bit sore what with all the smiling as he arranged things. He'd even decided to dispense with his normal suit for the evening, and to wear a plain shirt without a tie. It had been odd looking at himself in the mirror that way. But not odd in a bad way. He couldn't actually remember the last time he had allowed himself to relax; short of forcing sleep with a well-timed pharmaceutical. Ever since the unfortunate episode with Eurus he had noticed a need for assistance to fall asleep some nights. Stormy nights, and overly darkened ones, without a moon for some sort of shadowy comfort. He blamed Sherlock a little as well, for his invasion with the poppets, set on drawing out the Sherringford secret. Up until that point, Mycroft had always considered his home an unbreachable sanctuary. Trust Sherlock to make him question that. There had been far too much questioning of himself of late, and he didn't like it. Molly had proved to be a welcome distraction from it all. A pleasing distraction as well, hence the care in assembling the experience. Part of it, he knew, was also reclaiming that room for himself. His mind refused to be quiet when the rest of the house was so dangerously so.

The sound of the door chimes snapped him free from his introspection and he found himself popping up from his seat just a little more quickly than normal, and with just a touch of anticipation. James brought her around to the little theatre room, the smell of fresh popcorn greeting her and causing her to break out in a great smile, which triggered one of his own.

"Amazing." Molly took in the room, the carefully arranged trays of sweets and the popcorn machine itself. "You've thought of everything."

"Thank you." He modestly replied.

At some point James had slipped away and closed the door behind himself. It was just the two of them now.

"Would you like to choose something to watch?"

"I wouldn't know where to start."

The walls of the room were lined with shelves, separated by genre, alphabetized cases of movies overwhelming the unfamiliar.

"Would you choose one? Just not something that's going to make me cry if that's okay?"

"A classic perhaps?"

"Yes, that would be a good start."

Mycroft selected one of his favorites, a black and white horror film; nothing gruesome like the modern ones, one where the heroes won and the evildoers met justice. And one that wasn't too silly. Molly agreed as he held up the case, and settled herself into one of the chairs Mycroft had arranged, and took a handful of popcorn. It was, in Mycroft's estimation, a comfortable hour and a bit, with the sounds of rustling candy wrappers, popcorn crunching, and the pop of soda tabs, with an occasional gentle laugh or gasp from Molly, and just once, the brush of their hands together in the bowl between them.

When the credits began to roll he turned to her and asked (in the still dimmed light) if she had enjoyed it.

"I did. It was interesting to see where the later movies got some of their ideas from, and how much more faithful it was to the book."

"You've read the book?"

"Oh yes, I do like reading, when I get any time to relax that is."

"I do as well. Real books though, not these electronic insults." His smile was wide, and quite sincere.

"Oh yes, there's nothing like having a proper book, pages to flip and binding to hold."

"And to feel how the paper softens under your touch, especially as it is read repeatedly."

She nodded.

"It seems we have a few things in common then? The ballet, reading, and old movies."

"And a bit of intrigue as well."

"Ah yes, Sherlock. Have you spoken with him?"

"Briefly, he was looking for something for an experiment."

"How did he seem?"

"You haven't spoken with him?"

"No. I couldn't think of anything to say."

"Yes, we do have a great deal in common Mycroft." She laughed a little, seeming a nervous in his observation. "I had a very difficult time deciding what to say as well."

"And what did you finally decide on?"

"How are you? It seemed simple enough. Then he asked if I had any feet he could use."

"So he's back to normal for you then?"

"Or just blocking out everything in order to cope." She said with a sigh. "But that's probably what he needs right now. I've seen him too close to the edge too many times. I can't be the one to tip him over it." She dropped her head.

It was Mycroft's turn to sigh deeply. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn to Sherlock; or rather, he hadn't wanted it to turn that way. It felt like a wound being torn open anew, guilt washing in.

"And perhaps that is what I am afraid of as well?" He could hardly believe he'd said that out loud. This woman beside him seemed to have a way to disarm him. And that was concerning.

"You should talk to him."

"Yes."

"But we shouldn't talk about him any more."

"I agree. Would you like to watch another movie? I'm getting quite adept at making popcorn. I could even find a good bottle of scotch if you like?" He stood, moving towards the machine. She followed him.

"Could we talk about something first Mycroft?"

"Of course." He stopped what he was doing with the popcorn machine and turned to face her, her seriousness concerning him.

"You haven't said anything."

"To Sherlock?" He was obviously confused.

"To me." Her smile changed to something a little sad.

"I'm sorry Molly, I'm not sure what I was meant to discuss."

"I kissed you." Her cheeks went crimson. "I don't know if that was okay, or if I overstepped, or if you hated it and that's why you are ignoring it. I just don't know what to do about it Mycroft."

"Oh." His affect was a little flat in response, in truth, he had thought about it, and had wondered about that as well, what he was supposed to do about it. And he knew his answer was significantly less than satisfying just then.

"Maybe I've just made a fool out of myself? I should probably just go." She made to turn but he reached out and touched her shoulder, stopping her.

"Molly?"

"You don't have to say anything Mycroft."

"But I want to. I didn't say anything before because of Sherlock being there, and not understanding if you regretted what happened, or if it was just a friendly thing, or, well, I'm sorry. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"That's what John said, he didn't want me to get hurt again."

"You talked to John?"

"He saw the flowers. I was sitting for Rosie, his daughter while he and Sherlock were on a case. I didn't tell him I'd kissed you or anything. I've had enough of being humiliated in front of others."

"I don't want you to feel humiliated Molly. Not at all. The kiss, I just." The stuttering was really beginning to bother him and he furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "To he honest, I was just really hoping that you'd do it again."

He looked at her, tears forming in her eyes, her lips quivering, wondering if he hadn't just managed to accomplish everything he'd been hoping to avoid. But instead of fleeing she reached up, curled her hand around the back of his neck and kissed him soundly.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, Mycroft found himself encircling her waist with his arms, pulling her into his body, and parting her lips with his to deepen the kiss with a great sense of passion and just a little relief. Her body was warm against his and transferred that comfort through his chest, making him feel just a little lightheaded.

"Stay here tonight." He whispered to her, not even recognizing his own voice, and not actually caring.

"What?"

"Stay here, don't leave." He kissed her again, stealing her breath, clutching her to himself.

"Mycroft?" She whispered.

"Let me be foolhardy, maybe for the first time in my life Molly." He let her go, reluctantly, so he could look in her eyes again.

"In my position I don't have this gift. Everything I say or do can be misconstrued, I don't dare let my guard down for fear of compromise, reprisal, or worse. But with you, you are the one person who I know wouldn't betray me. With you I can be normal. God, I don't even know what normal is anymore. There is so much I don't know Molly. But I know that I want you to spend the night here, with me."

"Mycroft, I." It was Molly's turn to stutter an answer. His face fell as she watched and it crushed her heart to see it. "I just, I didn't bring anything with me, I don't even have a hairbrush." It was she that time, that reached for him. He tried to smile for her.

"I understand."

"No, you don't. This isn't about you. I promise you. This is about me, and being scared, and not expecting this, and, and wanting this to be perfect. I do want you. But I am worried about what happens tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow you'll see me with messy hair, and no makeup, or worse, smudged makeup, and rumpled clothes, and we've only just started this and I don't want you to regret anything because I want this. I want this so much."

"I hope I don't come across as so shallow to you that those things would matter."

"You don't, it's me, I have so little self confidence Mycroft. I can't even believe that I'm here, that you even wanted to kiss me, that you even asked me out more than once. I don't know how to even be in a relationship really. I just don't want to ruin this before it's even had a chance to start." She curled up her mouth in half a sad smile and he pulled her into his arms again.

"You're right, I didn't understand. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I'm sorry. Just kiss me one more time so I know I haven't ballsed it all up."

"Gladly."

His kiss was gentle and slow, making her want to melt into his arms, and question her sanity at saying no to him. If he had chanced to tug at her shirt she wouldn't have been able to resist, but he didn't, he was the gentleman she'd asked him to be.

Mycroft drove her home himself, walking her to the newly repaired door, and up to her flat. As she opened the door he switched on the hallway light, assuring himself that no one was waiting in the dark for her, and that no one would interrupt his kiss. No one did.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

Reckless.

Yes, that is what that whole episode had been.

Mycroft punched the speed upwards on his treadmill and pounded his feet harder against the rolling tread.

Asking her to stay the night? Good lord man, what kind of idiot have you become? He berated himself between panting breaths. What else was she going to say to him when he professed that but no?

When exactly had he lost his mind?

The treadmill buzzed at him as he passed another mile and he hit it angrily once again, forcing a pace he could barely keep up with; at least in the agitated state he was in just then. Cursing loudly he stopped the machine before it threw him ungracefully to the floor. He didn't need physical bruises to accompany the psychological ones.

"Damn it!"

He wiped the sweat from his face and finished the water bottle he'd placed in the holder by the operating screen, considered throwing the bottle against the wall, thought better of it, and finally collapsed into a chair, holding his head in his hands.

Mycroft listened to his own heart pounding, the sound echoing in his ears even as he felt it hammering against his ribcage. He counted it, as a means of refocusing his brain, being mindful of his body, and not his thoughts, until his heart, and with it, his anxiety began to ebb.

Before showering and dressing for work Mycroft texted his brother.

"My office at 2." He didn't wait for, or expect a reply.

"You called?" Sherlock swept into Mycroft's office with a tip of his imaginary hat to the receptionist, ignoring her objection as he pushed the door open, slammed it closed and planted himself in an occasional chair, knitting his fingers under his chin and staring at his brother in a disconcerting manner.

"Stop analyzing me Sherlock, I'm not one of your cases." He did feel distinctly like some sort of lab animal under his brother's gaze.

"Aren't you? You obviously need my help with something, otherwise why would you have summoned me?"

"Can't a brother just call?" He tried to smile and make it look sincere.

Sherlock actually snickered at the attempt.

"Fine." Mycroft walked around his desk, and leaned against the front of it, looking downwards at Sherlock. "I wanted to know how you are managing these days."

"Quite busy. Was that all, can I go now?" Sherlock made to stand up.

"No, that wasn't all!" It was hard not to be annoyed at the way Sherlock was acting, as if nothing had happened, as if he'd put it all behind him in only a few weeks, which he couldn't possibly have done, especially if Mycroft hadn't been able to.

"Then what?"

"How are you? Are you sleeping, are you eating, are you using?"

"Fine, yes, yes and no. Now can I go?"

"I don't believe you brother mine."

"What does it matter to you Mycroft?"

"Will you stop being so damned stubborn Sherlock?"

"What has brought this brotherly concern on all of a sudden?"

Mycroft's sigh was deep, so much so that he even doubted himself for a moment as to why he had brought this conversation out of the shadows.

"I was speaking with Molly." He began.

"Ah, Molly. So you two are seeing each other then are you?"

"That isn't the issue here."

"Have you slept with her yet?"

"Will you stop asking me that!" Mycroft felt his resolve rapidly dissolving into frustration with his brother.

"That would be no. But you're thinking about it. You're back to salads and your treadmill aren't you? Worried about what she'll see when you take your shirt off?"

"Enough!" Mycroft actually slammed a balled up fist against his desk. The noise was enough to quiet Sherlock. "I needed to make certain that you weren't going to hurt yourself because of everything that happened, because of everything you discovered. I owe that to Mother and Father, and Dr. Watson, and to Molly."

"Because of your own guilt."

"Yes damn it, because of my guilt. Now promise me that you will not do anything to hurt those people or yourself."

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, at least it seemed like a few minutes to Mycroft, watching his brother mull over a thousand things in his mind, his head cocked sideways, his lips pursed together.

"I promise you Mycroft." Sherlock whispered.

"And go and talk to someone about it."

"I'm certain you'll understand my reticence to engage a psychiatrist at this time."

"Then talk to someone else, John perhaps?"

"No. Not after what happened to Mary, and after Eurus tried to repeat her actions in murdering my best friend."

"Then Molly."

"I doubt she wants to hear from me right now."

"You might be surprised Sherlock. She is an incredible woman."

"Oh yes, I am aware of that."

"Then call her."

"If I say I will, will you let me go?"

"Fine."

"Then I will."

"Thank you Sherlock."

Mycroft watched his brother stand up from sitting but made no move towards him. He thought that their conversation was over until Sherlock looked over at him.

"And how are you Mycroft?"

"Just fine."

"Good to see that both of the Holmes boys are still excellent liars." And he walked out.

Frustration did not sit well with Mycroft Holmes. His brother had left him with even more questions than he had started the day with, and even fewer answers. And that made him want to punch something; not at all a comfortable urge for him. He'd spent his entire adult life keeping things under control, within himself and in the outside world he interacted with and suddenly everything had been thrown into chaos. That was unacceptable.

But even more unacceptable was his inability to push it all aside and focus on the files on his desk and the time sensitive materials he had to review. He wanted to believe that it was just that his blood sugar was low, and perhaps it was, damned Sherlock had sussed correctly that he had only had a salad for lunch inside of his usual protein and carbs choices. And yes, damn it, it was in an effort to tighten up his abs. All of which he was also beginning to question. Grabbing up his coat and umbrella he went out in search of a proper meal.

The calories, and the fresh (if damp) air did seem to help Mycroft with finishing up his desk full of work. At least he was able to leave the office prior to midnight; too late to try to call Molly he supposed, as much as he wanted to. God his house seemed so lonely and quiet all of a sudden. And where he normally appreciated the peace and solitude of it; away from politics and espionage, tonight it was empty: even more so with an empty refrigerator and a full bar.

The first tumbler of scotch went down too quickly, and the second one followed. And with a foggy head and the remaining frustration of his day unleashed by the drink Mycroft picked up his phone. There was a picture of her, she didn't know it had been taken, at the ballet, when she'd been at the bar, speaking with the Russian. It had been a surveillance photo, monitoring the Russian's activities not hers. It had come to him electronically and he'd copied it to his private phone. She was radiant. Her smile was natural, her body relaxed, it wasn't that she didn't have tension, or anxiety, (he knew she did, because of him, and Sherlock and Eurus) but she was able to let it go for a night, and give herself permission to relax. He envied her for that, and so desperately wanted to tell her, to tell her everything. But then liquor did make many things seem like very good ideas in the middle of the night, in an empty house.

"I spoke to Sherlock." He typed it in and sent it without a pause.

"I'm glad." Was the nearly instant reply. Mycroft felt immediately sober. (Even though he wasn't).

"You're awake?"

"Just reading."

He pictured her curled into the corner of her couch, a blanket thrown over her legs, her hair long, framing her face.

"How are you?" The ping from the phone called his attention.

He wasn't immediately certain how to answer, alcohol infused courage waning.

"Mycroft, are you okay?" She repeated. Her anxiety somehow conveyed through the message.

"Just tired. There are a great many things requiring my attention just now." It was the truth.

"Will you be able to sleep?"

"The single malt should help."

"Well far be it for me to criticize."

He smiled, remembering the drink they had shared in her flat.

"I'm just trying to put the jumbled puzzle pieces back together somehow now that the picture has chnaged." Well, that was an obtuse response, he thought to himself as he looked at his screen, feeling as if he should qualify it somehow.

"I worry for you."

"I'll be fine." Well that sounded a little too familiar for comfort.

"I'm here for you."

"I would love to see your smile right about now." That had to have been the scotch.

For a moment there was no response, and then a picture appeared. Molly, one hand up in a wave, (the other obviously holding the camera/phone), a gentle smile, and the blanket he'd pictured her with wrapped over her shoulders. He felt a little shudder run over his chest.

"You are beautiful."

"And you may very well be drunk."

"But in the morning I will be sober and you will still be beautiful." Well, that absolutely sounded like a country song, and the vision of himself in a cowboy hat made him smile. That was definitely the scotch.

"Go to bed Mycroft."

"Yes Mum."

"Can I come round to see you tomorrow? Maybe lunch?"

"I look forward to it."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

"Mr. Holmes?" The intercom (a throwback device Mycroft still appreciated) buzzed, "There is a Ms. Hooper downstairs in the lobby to see you. Shall I tell security to take her through screening?"

"God no. Tell them I'll be right down."

There was no need to put Molly through that process. Out of necessity it had become rigorously stringent in the last few years, far beyond your basic metal detectors. Sadly, those who meant harm could print devices in plastic, seal explosives in their shoes (or their bodies) and wreak havoc with only their physical skills. No, he would spare Molly that indignity and meet her downstairs. Besides, there would be significantly less questions asked of him the fewer people who saw her. He grabbed up his coat and his umbrella and nodding at his assistant, he stepped into the elevator.

She was sitting on a plush bench nearest to the door, almost as if she intended to flee, watching the bank of elevators as discretely as she could. She smiled the moment she saw him and stood as he cleared security with a wave; one of the perks certainly, of his position.

"Shall we?" Mycroft motioned to exit the glass and steel entry doors (reinforced against most everything). She nodded, understanding, he supposed, his reticence to become too familiar in such a very public place.

He led her off the campus and towards the bridge that separated the building from the center of London. The day was grey, as it had been more often than not these last few weeks, but that was to be expected this time of year. It didn't seem to be deterring the tourists, who clamored for selfies with the river behind them and the houses of Parliament in the distance. Clear of the cameras that monitored the building itself Mycroft reached for Molly's hand, grasping it tightly as they walked. London was ripe with cameras, and most certainly someone might chance upon him with their facial recognition software; well, not a normal police surveillance team as his identity wouldn't be recognized by their databases, but certainly his own systems, should they have cause to be reviewing those particular views for any reason. With any luck, no one would have the fortitude to question him about it. Except Elizabeth of course, but she was easy enough to deal with, after all, there were those letters.

"How has your day been Molly?" There were no microphones that sensitive pointed at him just then.

"It's been fine, two intakes this morning, normal causes thank goodness, and no calls about anything nefarious. John hasn't even called about sitting for Rosie again, which is odd, perhaps he's asking Mrs. Hudson again? And how has your morning been?"

"Well,"

"Oh wait, you probably can't tell me can you?" She laughed a little; it was lovely thing to hear.

"Espionage does have its drawbacks." He replied with a subtle shrug of his shoulders.

"Well there's a good title for another of John's blogs."

"Certainly better than that Pink one."

"Yes, that one was a little odd wasn't it?"

They took a few more steps in silence.

"You don't think Dr. Watson is keeping his daughter away from you because of me do you?" He inquired.

"I can't imagine why he would do that."

"I don't suppose he's very fond of me right now."

"Then that is his loss." Molly squeezed his hand to reassure him. That she would not think badly of anyone continued to be refreshing to him; making his heart feel lighter.

"You have a rather amazing outlook on the world Ms. Hooper."

"It's the only thing that keeps me sane."

"Well perhaps I can help with that by buying you lunch from a chip truck and redirecting your thoughts to happy things?"

"I would certainly like it if you'd try Mr. Holmes."

Fish and chips in newspaper seemed a good choice, if just a little typical for an English lunch, but Molly's smile never wavered as he brought over the cones with a handful of tarter sauce packets. They spread out a bit of picnic between themselves on a bench overlooking the river and tucked into the well-battered food.

"You know I don't normally eat like this." Molly mumbled as she pulled a piece of the fish off and delicately popped it into her mouth.

"Of course not. Neither do I." Mycroft matched her grin.

"Salads and quinoa get so boring after awhile."

"Good to have a treat." He said while nodding.

They both broke down laughing, something Mycroft noted that he hadn't done in a very long time.

"If you come over for dinner this Saturday I promise to make you a big bowl of Kale and steamed something or other, guaranteed to be healthy."

"Please don't. Grill something, or roast it even, just no steaming or boiling unless it's laundry."

"But you'll come over?"

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I had a home cooked meal?"

"Christmas?"

"Yes," he nodded, "Christmas." Memories of that day were uncomfortable for him, he wanted to believe that it was a rare occurrence that others 'got the drop on him', but that was yet another example of it, and both instances had involved his siblings. He tried to push the recollection away knowing his expressions must have demonstrated that concern to Molly, not that she questioned him about it. "I don't keep much in the pantry at all. Some biscuits and tea and condiments in case the takeout man forgets them. Otherwise it all comes in a paper sack or cardboard box."

"That's so sad. I would have imagined you to be an excellent cook."

"Not something I've ever had the time to explore."

"Perhaps we should cook together then?"

He wasn't certain how wise that was, not that he doubted his skill in a kitchen, but only that it had been so very long since he'd applied them.

"I'll bring the wine." He offered.

"It's a date then." And she leaned over and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

PDA's and cameras be damned, Mycroft wiped his fingers on a handful of flimsy napkins, curled his hand around Molly's neck and brought his mouth to hers deliberately, parting her lips as they connected, pulling a breath from her even as she relaxed against him. The way her body curled into his as they kissed felt so suddenly natural for a man who eschewed human connection at the best of times. And but for the remnants of the fish and chips between them he might have reached out with his other arm to embrace her more fully. Though on reflection it might have been more awkward than intimate on a park bench.

"Wow." She whispered as he released her. He grinned. He was most certainly not used to being recognized for that type of prowess. Not that he thought about often. Well, hadn't thought about it often prior to inviting her to the ballet. His head felt a bit wobbly all of sudden, akin to a first drink, before it became more of an ache. Her cheeks shaded to crimson as she bowed her head.

"Have I embarrassed you Molly?"

"I wouldn't have expected something like that of you?"

"Because of how John and Sherlock describe me?"

"Well, yes. Sorry."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear about me Ms. Molly."

"So it would seem. I look forward to finding out what else I may have been mistaken about."

He took her hand and helped her to rise.

"And I look forward to showing you."

That morning on the treadmill hadn't been nearly as painful as the last. He'd actually been able to relax (as much as one could relax while pushing themselves to the edge of muscle tolerance and lactic acid burn). At least he wasn't admonishing himself for every word he'd said to her, every facial expression, every touch, or even the bottle of wine he'd picked out. Of course, wine was not an issue. He'd pulled a bottle from his private stores, a suitably dusty label and excellent appellation. He might not have a stocked pantry, but he had a wine cellar to rival Michelin. In fact, if he gave himself the leave to admit it, he was excited about the upcoming evening.

Several hours passed at his desk in work after his run, made the day go a little faster for him. He showered (again), made certain everything was pressed, chose a sports jacket (truth was he'd decided on that one earlier in the week), rang James to bring the car around and put his phone on silent before he slipped it into his pocket.

She'd gotten up early to clean. Not that her flat was generally untidy but she wanted to run a cloth over the few knick-knacks she did have and banish any dust from the sills and fingerprints from the stainless steel. She hadn't seen much of his house on her visit, but what she had seen had been impeccable. Her shelves certainly weren't nearly as well organized as his, her floors didn't shine, and probably never would. But she could make sure the laundry was done, and the counters were tidy, and that the crystal shone. She went to the market to get everything fresh and set out flowers and opened the windows to make certain nothing seemed stale. A bit much, perhaps, but it kept her from feeling quite so anxious; at least until her phone hummed.

Molly met him at the downstairs door, she looked so lovely to him with her hair worn down again, he wondered why he seemed to fixate on that; perhaps because all he ever saw around him were efficient buns and updos. He wanted this to be different. He wanted her to be part of a completely different world. That realization was coming to him in increasingly rapid epiphanies. (If that was even a word), as he began to experience things he'd forgotten could exist.

He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, feeling the gentle giggle against his lips as she responded: it making him smile.

"Won't you please come in?" She asked with a sassy little tilt to her head.

"I would love to."

"I've got scallops and linguini with pesto to make, I hope that's okay with you?"

"It sounds lovely." (Really, he had to find some better words for his internal monologues as they kept making themselves audible.)

"Can I put you in charge of the pesto while I sear the scallops? There's fresh herbs to chop and parmesan to grate."

"Is it safe to pour us a glass of wine first or will there be too many sharp knives?"

"I trust you. The corkscrew is in the top drawer and the glasses are on the counter."

"And what shall we toast to?" He offered her the first glass, taking up his own afterwards.

"Possibilities?" She said, with that same smirk. His chest fluttered and he worried about his grip on the crystal stem.

"To possibilities then." He was pleased that his voice hadn't broken as he spoke.

The crystal sang.

They had used a lot of pots and pans; toasting pine nuts for a garlic scape pesto, sautéing scallops in lemon, tossing pasta with oil and grating fresh parmesan. Somehow Molly had managed to tidy it all (including the dishes) into the sink and out of sight. He'd offered to help her with them, but she'd refused, wanting to take the remains of the bottle of wine over to the couch instead. It seemed an excellent idea and Mycroft was not inclined to argue.

"Was dinner okay?" She asked cautiously as he topped up both their glasses.

"I enjoyed it very much."

"I was so worried I was going to burn something." Molly shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips together in a worried smile.

"It was all perfect." He reassured her, as he reached for her hand and brushed his fingertips along the back of it. Her voice softened along with her smile; her head turning shyly away from him.

"It was fun cooking with someone else for a change."

"It was." He curled those fingertips around her palm and raised their clasped hands to his lips to kiss her skin softly, she still smelt faintly of the lemons she'd cut for the scallops. He felt her shudder at the touch, but not pull away from him. On the contrary, she turned back to him, looking into his eyes, reading him with her kind face. (So very unlike Sherlock when he stared at his subjects, trying to take them apart.) She truly was the antithesis to his brother.

"When you kiss me," she whispered, "you give me butterflies."

"Thank you."

Both took a drink from their glasses.

"Must be all that practice with those exotic Russian spies you meet." The wine had given her some courage it seemed; her grin turning mischievous.

"You do know that James Bond is a work of fiction?"

"Is he really?" Her raised eyebrows complimented her curled lips. She seemed to be using humor and teasing to defuse the obvious tension between them.

"Well, I suppose, not completely. But he certainly wasn't based on me. And I don't look like Daniel Craig does in a swimsuit."

"Well, it's not as if I'm a Bond girl or anything."

"Oh Molly, you are so self-deprecating. You don't even realize how beautiful you are." He put their clasped hands over his heart. "The other night, in your red dress, you were breathtaking. Right now, here, you are breathtaking to me."

She bit her lower lip in an exquisite gesture of humility. It gave him butterflies.

"And you are an excellent cook." He added. She dropped her head and let her hand slip from his. Saying nothing in response.

Mycroft watched as she stood from the couch, staring, it seemed, out the glass door of the little Juliet balcony, but really not seeing anything in the darkness, collecting her thoughts about what he had just said.

"Maybe," she said to the glass, perhaps to his reflection in it. "Maybe I could make you breakfast?"

Her voice was so soft and hesitant that Mycroft was left speechless for a moment. That silence prompted a regretful qualification.

"You must think I'm quite mad Mycroft. I can't even understand my own head these days."

He stood to go and comfort her, but she drew into herself wrapping her arms around her chest, finally looking up at him briefly.

"Just a few days back I turned you down, not wanting to ruin anything, not trusting myself, making excuses, but now, how can, why?" She began to stutter and her eyes to gleam with unshed tears.

"Molly." He cupped her face in his hands and turned it up to his. He could feel his own heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape his chest and reveal itself to her. He had the sense that whatever his next words were, they would keep or crush her, and so he chose no words at all and kissed her hard on the mouth.

She yielded to his hunger, trembling shoulders softening, arms uncurling, wrapping his waist as she pulled their bodies together. He felt the moisture against his cheek as the tears fell, and pushed against her harder, taking her mouth, her tongue, dancing, caressing, till neither had a breath to spare and deprivation drove them apart, gasping.

"I would love to have breakfast with you." And Mycroft swept her up off her feet into his arms as she gave a little sobbing yelp and carried her down the hall to her bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

Mycroft laid Molly down onto her bed carefully, missing the feeling of her arms around his neck as soon as she let them fall to the crisp duvet. The whole situation they found themselves in was foreign to him. It wasn't that he'd never been with a woman before; it just hadn't gone quite this way. Perhaps it had always seemed a little scripted before? He was at a bit of a loss with this spontaneity, though looking down at her gentle smile and blown pupils provoked a physical response that drove him to reflex, brain not quite withstanding.

Undoing the few buttons at his neck he yanked the knit shirt over his head and tossed it onto the ground. Then he returned to her, coming to kiss her slowly, supporting himself on his hands as he hovered over her, brushing against her lips, feeling her quiver, sharing the delicacy of it and closing his eyes for a moment to try to focus his racing thoughts. Something that proved impossible as he felt her hands light on his chest, kneading against his skin, curling around the small of his back to draw his weight onto her. Her moan was delicious and the kiss turned to sheer desperate passions between them, her hands holding him, his chest heaving against hers as their mouths tangled.

Mycroft felt his hands moving to the hem of her shirt seeming without conscious control, tugging at it till she pulled it away herself, and he found his fingers tracing her bare skin as if he was painting her portrait. He noticed them trembling as he brushed them over the silk of her bra, feeling that ongoing desperation to see all of her, to touch and to taste. Her hands went to his belt, and it seemed the best idea in the world to unbuckle it and slide it off, his trousers following as she shimmied out of hers.

"You are so beautiful." He whispered, knowing full well that his desires must be completely obvious to her then, and not actually caring. In fact, it felt electric as he rested his body over hers, scant bits of fabric the only thing between them, and even those hardly an encumbrance as she arched her back against him, rocking her hips to his. The next moan was his: long and slow. Everything else was instinct. His hands under her back, her lace being pulled away, his mouth upon her neck, trailing downwards in kisses and nuzzling, actions fueled by her body's response to him.

Her skin was soft, yielding to his mouth and fingers as he took her breasts into his palms, kissing their crowns in turn, feeling the trembling against his lips, hearing her stuttered breaths, knowing her passions as she kneaded his shoulders, holding him in place to her pleasures. Desperation was building in his gut like a knot and he relished in it, using it to drive him, heightening his own pleasures as she responded to him until he could bear it no longer.

He slid his hands down to her hips and curled them inwards to her thighs, edging ever inwards, as her body grew still, waiting for his.

"I need you." He whispered, not at all aware of just how true and deep those words truly were.

"Yes." She offered on a long breath, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, her body stretching out, skin tight, vision, once again, breathtaking.

She was like silk, caressing him as he entered her: carefully and slowly, wanting to savor and commit to memory every sensation of joining her. Her inhaled breath was long and desperately sensual.

"Oh God." He whispered to himself, lost in it all as he reached his hilt and began to rock against her.

It was bliss, the warmth and tension, seeds that grew and blossomed to envelop every nerve and fiber from his gut out to his fingertips and the top of his head. Every movement against her and within her pushed him further than he'd ever imagined: her gentle cries only punctuating their rhythm. Her hips took him deeply, beyond any hope of control on his part; and so he gave in to her.

And she took him.

The room was dark: the only light the ambient glow filtering through the shutters from the streetlights. The air smelled of them, salt and sweet, and something he hadn't noticed when he'd first entered: lavender. Not the chemical type that came from aerosol cans or candles, but something fresh, and indeed, turning his head slowly he could just make out the hand tied bundle on the dresser. It lay in front of an old mother of pearl photo frame, the picture, though faded with age, showed a woman standing beside a young girl. Judging by what he could make out, the woman must have been Molly's mother, she wore the large hair of the seventies, and the wide collars and patterns. Therefore the girl had to be Molly herself, smiling in slightly askew ponytails and a romper tied over her shoulders. It sat just behind an antique vanity set, and what was likely an alabaster jewelry box. There was a mirror against the wall with a single crucifix draped over the right corner, in which he could just see their forms in the bed.

Molly's head was resting against his chest, her arm thrown over his waist. His arm was draped over her shoulder, his hand resting just under her breast, holding her to him. She was sleeping quietly just then, her chest rising and falling gently with her breathing.

Mycroft wasn't quite certain why he'd woken. He remembered the languid bliss of rolling her into his arms, whispered words that trailed off into silence as he kissed her head and her body became heavy against his. At some point he must have slept, time had passed, of that he was certain, but Molly didn't seem to have any type of alarm clock he could check, and he'd left his phone in his jacket pocket. As he surveyed the room (beyond the dresser) Mycroft noted the absence of most typical things one might expect to find in a lady's bedroom. The walls were bare but for the aforementioned mirror and a few prints (well framed) of Van Gogh paintings: Almond Blossoms and Poppy Flowers if he wasn't mistaken. And he wasn't. Two pieces from happier times for Vincent, telling perhaps, a representation of a respite from his troubles, in a room that might be exactly the same thing for her.

God, to think that she needed a respite. He held her just a little tighter, not wanting to wake her, but needing to protect her. But for his family what would she have been, who could she have been? And where was he taking her now? He could turn the coward, slip out of her embrace, be out of her flat before she woke. And perhaps that would be the kindest thing, to sever her from the Holmes name completely.

No. How could he even think that way: with her lying there in his arms, them having just made love, no! He kissed the top of her head again and clutched at her a little tighter. She stirred briefly, her breathing hitched, her fingers curling into a fist and her back tensing. The beautiful peace of her softened features turned to something else, fear? Pain? It was so hard to tell. Nightmares? He hadn't even considered that she might have them still. She never said. But of course, he'd never asked.

"Molly." He whispered to her as he kissed her again. "Molly, don't be afraid." She twisted. "I won't let anything happen to you. I swear it. I am so sorry." He heard his own voice crack, even in the whisper, and noticed that his cheeks were wet. He hadn't even realized he'd been crying.


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9

Everything was quiet, though the light filtering into the room was brighter than the last time Mycroft recalled opening his eyes to it. And he was alone. How was it that she had slipped away without him realizing? And what time was it? He hadn't recalled seeing a clock in the room the night before, and on second look he'd been correct, there wasn't one. He did see his clothing however, neatly folded over the trunk at the end of her bed, and it seemed a good idea to at least pull on his shorts and trousers before he went in search of her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his feet through the pant legs Mycroft couldn't help but think back on what had happened, on how they had fallen into each other; how he had wanted it, but had never even fantasized about it until that very moment. Perhaps that is why he'd felt so lost afterwards? It was odd, not knowing the next step, being quite lost, or was it, living in the moment? Throwing care to the wind? Leaping before he looked? How many more clichés could he come up with, he wondered, to avoid leaving that room and confronting the day after, and her innocent face. Assuming she was actually home that was.

Somehow he managed to get the door open without any panic (any overt panic) and wandered out into the narrow hallway leading back to her living room, where she was sitting, or rather, lounging on the couch, a blanket around her feet and a book in her hands.

"Good morning." She said with a gentle smile.

"What time is it?"

"About eleven."

"Eleven?"

"You seemed so tired, I didn't want to wake you. Was I wrong, to let you rest?"

"No." He shook his head, "No, I'm just not used to sleeping in. I can't even remember the last time I did."

"I really thought when I showered that the noise would wake you, but it didn't. So I just curled up here and thought I'd wait. I can make you some tea and breakfast if you like?" She uncurled herself from the blanket. He could see the curves of her hips under her yoga pants as she did, remembering.

"Would it be alright if I washed up first?" He caught himself before the stutter.

"Of course, I left you some towels in the bathroom. I'll put the kettle on and make some eggs?"

"You really don't need to go to any trouble Molly."

"Tea and toast at least."

He nodded; afraid of what he might say if he opened his mouth and what he might profess, or how he might ruin things. The brief escape to the bathroom was necessary to regroup and regain his composure.

He looked at himself in the mirror; no different outwardly than he had been the day before, the week before, the year before. Had he always looked like this? He must have smiled at Molly, must have looked happy with her, for her, about her. But now, it was the same stoic face that met him every morning when he shaved. Or was it? There was something different, something in his eyes, realization? Fear? Shock? Or was he just willing that change, wanting it as badly as he wanted her.

He stripped down and climbed into the shower, letting the hot water run over his head as he bowed it, bracing himself against the wall lest he slip, or collapse. Muscles that suddenly ached were soothed by the stream; soap and shampoo made him feel more presentable, as did the toothbrush she'd left for him, atop a pile of fresh towels. He questioned how she even looked at him, pale skin, extra weight here and there, thinning hair, and yet the passion she had brought to their encounter had been genuine. He wanted to be just as genuine, but this was all foreign to him: as was doubting himself.

But there was no way to simply avoid the conversations that he needed to have with her, and with himself: those conversations threatening to run into each other. And so he dressed again, tidied after himself and went back out into the living room with what he hoped was an honest smile on his face.

Hers certainly was.

She had the tea on the counter top where they had eaten dinner the night before, and two cups laid out with sugar and lemon wedges. There were butter and preserves and fresh toast that put him in mind of a bakery. It imbued a comfortable feeling to the room, just like the lavender had done in her bedroom and Mycroft wondered if she was aware that she'd done this, or if it was just another part of her innate sense, that part that drew others to her.

"Do you feel better?" She asked.

"Thank you, yes. And thank you for everything you left for me there."

"Sorry for not having a razor, I just didn't know what kind you liked, and I understand men can be particular about that kind of thing."

"I'm not so fussy," he rubbed his hand over his cheeks; not too bad, "at least I don't think I am."

"Next time I'll have some."

She wanted a next time, well, that was a good sign he thought to himself as he watched her pour tea. They both reached for the sugar at the same time, fingers brushing. She smiled shyly and bowed her eyes away from him.

"Molly?"

"Umm." She answered.

"Should we talk about this?"

"I guess, yes."

"What do we have here, you and I?"

"What do you think this is Mycroft?"

"Well, I like to think that if I made love to someone that we'd be in a relationship. But of course, I might just be old fashioned that way?"

"I like old fashioned."

"Oh good." It seemed the silliest thing to say, but the only thing that came to mind. He smiled and had a sip of tea.

She laughed a little, behind her hand in a delicate sort of way, and smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. Mycroft wondered if he should lean over and kiss her just then, but he never got the opportunity as her phone, sitting on the little side table chimed; rather annoyingly he thought to himself.

"Sorry." She excused herself from their breakfast and answered it.

"Hello?" Her voice was soft, and Mycroft set himself to spreading some preserves over a piece of toast, wanting to give her, at least the impression of privacy. He could still hear her side of the conversation, but planned on ignoring it until he heard one name.

"Sherlock?"

"Hello Molly. I was wondering if I could speak to Mycroft please?"

He saw her face pale and eyes widen as she looked directly at him.

"Now why would you think Mycroft was with me Sherlock?"

Well that sentence explained a great deal.

"Well, I've rung his home, office and cell numerous times this morning, so he's either dead or engaged in something that would make him ignore his phone. In either case, I need to speak with him please."

"Where are you?"

"Baker Street."

"Well if I see him I will ask him to call you, how's that?"

"Please." And he rang off.

Mycroft watched Molly put the phone down, still a little pale, and look into his eyes, composing herself for a moment.

"He wants you to call him." She said.

Without a word Mycroft retrieved his phone from the inside breast pocket of his jacket, holding down the power button.

"You turned it off?"

"I did." He smiled, "I didn't want our dinner to be interrupted."

The thing began to chatter in his hand, pings from text messages and chirps from voicemail.

"Goodness." He exclaimed as the count rolled: six voicemails and twenty-three texts. Ignoring the voicemails Mycroft thumbed through the messages, shaking his head.

"Is he all right?"

"Annoyingly so, heaven forbid he exercise a modicum of patience when he feels a sudden need for information."

"I suppose that you should see what he needs then?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She stood.

"It was lovely to have all this time with you Mycroft."

"I'm sorry I have to leave."

"Oh, I understand, I've had my share of those calls as well."

"May I call you later?"

She leaned in as Mycroft started putting on his coat and kissed him softly on his mouth.

"I'll be waiting."


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

"Have you ever heard of Daedalus?"

Mycroft had settled himself behind his desk, freshly shaved, with a pressed suit and tie, hiding a modicum of annoyance, (and just a little bit of relief if he was to be honest with himself). He'd summoned Sherlock from his office, offering nothing by way of excuse for the delay in returning his messages.

"The gentleman who constructed the labyrinth on Crete?" He replied, raised eyebrows, innocent tilt to his lips, infuriating his brother, not that Sherlock would ever let on that it was so. It was their game, and one Mycroft acknowledged, he lost more often than Sherlock did.

"The code name."

"I see. And why do you ask?" Of course he'd heard of Daedalus, but he wasn't about to let on immediately or divulge classified intelligence (even if the operation was concluded) without a much better understanding of why Sherlock was asking the question.

"It's for John. Rather for a friend of John's. Someone looking for his son."

Mycroft ran through the list of casualties from the operation silently, sorting out the surnames in his mind, trying to make a connection.

"Name?" He asked, having narrowed it down to two or three possibilities in his head.

"Ashcroft."

That had been one of the choices.

"And what about him?"

"He died, in 2015, in Aleppo."

"Then why is his father looking for him?"

"Because he got a phone call. Two weeks ago, and he swears it was from his son."

"A grieving father's misunderstanding perhaps?"

"Major Ashburn is not a man given to delusions."

"You've spoken to him then I gather?"

"I have. And I believe he has some reason to question the military regarding his son's supposed death. But of course, all he has been able to uncover is the name Daedalus, reluctantly given over by some of his son's comrades, and this mysterious phone call, which followed the inquiry. So, if you can enlighten me as to what, or who Daedalus is I'll continue my investigation and leave you to your own pursuits."

"A 'What' then." Mycroft left aside the innuendo presented about his 'pursuits'.

"Well that is a start at least. Care to elaborate?"

"An operation. Its goal to disable a plant, manufacturing drones."

"And not the ones you order off of Amazon I presume?"

"Hardly."

"So, military quality."

"Beyond what you might imagine brother mine."

"Oh, I have a rather excellent imagination."

Mycroft shook his head.

"Shall we agree then that they are ones that could carry ordinance of a very potent nature? Just to save ourselves some time?"

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft continued.

"There was a man in Syria, who had designed quite the unique delivery system, and had undertaken to produce and market that system."

"And obviously not to our side."

"Indeed."

"And so you sent people in to dissuade him from that pursuit?"

"We did."

"And how did that go?"

"Well you haven't seen anything hovering over Buckingham Palace have you?"

"So, a mixed result you could say?"

"Losses were, acceptable."

"Except possibly to Major Ashcroft."

"He's a soldier himself, if anyone could understand."

"And yet he believes that the military has lied to him and that his son is still alive, despite the flag draped coffin that was delivered to him."

"When one is dealing with large explosions identification can be flawed."

"So you are admitting that there may be something to this suspicion Mycroft?"

"Not officially."

"Is anything ever official with you?"

"No."

"And if this hypothetical soldier was alive, any thoughts as to where he might be?"

"I really couldn't say. But if he had come home, I'm certain he would have been given quite explicit instructions about contacting people, and avoiding certain places."

"Orders are different when it's someone you love."

Mycroft paused.

"Yes, I suppose they can be. But when it comes to a matter of life or death, decisions have to be made, no matter how flawed they may seem in retrospect."

They both stared at each other for a few minutes, willing neutral expressions on their faces, examining each other for any clues.

"How is Molly?" Sherlock asked, more quietly than his other questioning.

"She is healing."

"I'm glad."

"You aren't going to warn me off her, or threaten me Sherlock?"

"No. Not this time."

"More important matters to concern yourself with then?"

"Nothing is more important than her."

Mycroft wanted to agree with Sherlock, but he kept silent. Even after his conversation with Molly, he wasn't quite certain where things stood between them, and he certainly wasn't about to hash that situation out with his brother.

"I'll be going then, hypothetical solider to find." Sherlock stood.

"Where will you start?"

"With the motivations for faking your own death, or having someone help you with that."

"Which are?"

"Fear, or love."

"Or both?" Mycroft offered.

"Yes, likely both. Though I imagine that any fear involved wouldn't be for himself. David Ashcroft walked into Aleppo knowing that he might not walk back out. If he's hiding, he's hiding someone else with him."


End file.
